Just My Imagination
by calicoskies4ever
Summary: Wilson visits House, AU and Alternate ending, and major spoilers for Both Sides Now. Do not read if you haven’t seen that episode! My usual warnings, especially slash.
1. Chapter 1

Just my Imagination: Wilson visits House, AU and Alternate ending, and major spoilers for _Both Sides Now_. Do not read if you haven't seen that episode! My usual warnings, child abuse, slash, other stuff in later chapters. Also I sort of changed the timeline from what was on the show so that they could meet earlier in life.

"Ooh, her love is heavenly;  
when her arms enfold me,  
I hear a tender rhapsody...  
but in reality, she doesn't even know me.  
Just my imagination –once again—

running away with me.  
Tell you it was just my imagination  
running away with me," Whitfield and Strong

"They tell me you stopped eating," I said, sitting down beside House, looking into his pained eyes and hating myself for letting him wind up in a place like this. He meets my eyes for all of thirty seconds before going back to work on a drawing on the table in front of him. It showed a little boy, lying on his side, curled up, unhappily, on the ground. He's outside surrounded by grass and trees and bushes, and the dark purple sky is doted with half a dozen tiny stars. There was some shadowy figure standing over the boy but it was faceless, shapeless, unidentifiable. "That's really—is that you?" He still didn't respond. "I'm sorry; I know you must hate this place. I promise, once things are more under control you can come home, and _I'll _take care of you. Cook your favorite foods every day and every night, sit with you, okay?" Greg shook his head. "What? Should I—I know you wanna go home now, but we can't…" He finally spoke.

"You can't spend however long I've got left taking care of me. Even if I _can _get this under control. You don't—I am _not _your responsibility," he said, putting a crayon down. We both watched as it rolled across the table and onto the floor. I placed my hand over his, squeezing gently. "And I eat plenty. They just think I need more, but I'd still be eating the same amount if I was at home." At this point he didn't pull away, but part of me wondered if he wanted me to let go.

"You're right I don't have to take care of you, but I can't imagine you spending the rest of your life in this place. Well, actually I can, if the rest of your life is going to be less than a year. I'm not offering to do this because I think I have to. There's no reason for me to not to. You are miserable, and in pain, and sick, and scared. If I were in that position, I wouldn't even bother. But you're here, you're fighting and deserve to be with somebody who understands, who loves you. And that is always going to be me. That's why I kept trying to sabotage things when I thought you had—that's why I'm here. That's why I'm going to stay with you, whether it's here, at home, or in a little cottage in the South of France." Greg let a small, weak smile form on his lips. "I brought you a Ruben." He nodded again, but didn't say anything. "Want it?"

"I won't ask you to give up everything for me." The way he said that last word, made it sound like he thought of himself as completely worthless. Greg's face was suddenly filled with anger and frustration. He knew that I knew, and he hated it. He tried to pull the dropped item closer with his left foot, but couldn't quite get the thing.

"It's okay, I won't tell anybody—and that was the absolute worst possible response, right? Sorry, I'm just. I'm having a little trouble dealing with this right now, and I don't know what to do or how to do it." He leaned down, picked up the crayon and went back to ignoring me. "How about we don't' talk about that right now? I brought us sandwiches. We're gonna eat them, and then you're gonna complain about the idiots who work here, and the uncomfortable bed they're making you sleep in, and we're gonna go to your room and watch General Hospital together, and then I'm gonna sit in a chair all night, because I told them that you're going to start to get better, faster if you have me around."

"Part of me is really glad that you're here, especially after you just said all that stuff but I'm—the rest of me is…I ca—ca—I can't," he, stammered. _He thinks I'm a hallucination, _I realized almost instantly. I wrapped my arms around him, pulling his body into my arms, and holding on as tightly as I could.

"We're gonna figure out, okay? I'm real, and I'm here because I love you. And I have proof, okay?' House sat awkwardly, without lifting his head, almost as if he were terrified to look at me again. _He thinks you're going to disappear, or turn into a monster, or worse. _He didn't cry, although his chest was heaving. "It's okay. Here, look, wallet, driver's license, Blockbuster Card, MasterCard, and look," I whispered, reaching into the photo pocket and pulling out a snap shot of the two of us. The photo was almost as old as our relationship, and had been taken by my mother, when I introduced him to my family. Greg was a second year intern, I a third year medical student, each of us on vacation. He was smiling because we had just emerged from my old bedroom, where we had kissed for the first time. I was smiling because I'd known the guy for eight months, and had been madly in love with him the entire time, but never imagined he might feel the same way, and I knew that the kiss was going to be the beginning of something huge and wonderful. We had a secret, we were happy, and we were together, and I thought it was going to last forever. "Remember that day?" He shrugged. "This isn't helping, is it?" Once again he simply stared at the paper, pressing down on the crayon with all his strength. "Alright, we'll figure this out too. Do you wanna ask someone else if I'm really here?"

"There's a candy striper with really big tits over there," he said, nodding with his chin. I smiled, looking up. It was true, and to make things worse, she was wearing low cut, tight fitting tank top. "She... I've—call her over?" I did. House asked the woman if she could see me. Her eyes got misty for half a second before she assured him that I was in fact sitting in the chair beside him. "Okay."

"Okay you believe me, or okay it doesn't matter anymore," I asked, once the woman was out of earshot. Greg—it took me a moment to understand why—held up his index finger. "Good, because I'm real, and while I might short sheet your bed, I would never try and trick you like that." He sniggered a little, and started to look around. "Hungry?" He nodded, and I went up to the front desk, got our lunch, brought it back, moved his drawing, and set out the sandwiches. "That's it," I whispered, unsure whether I wanted him to hear me and make fun of it, or if I didn't want him to hear it because it might hurt or upset him.

"I might be crazy but that doesn't actually change who I am," he told me, pulling at bits of crust and dropping them to the side. "You don't have to treat me any differently than you usually do. In fact, I want you to treat me normally. I want you to be my best friend, the guy who barfed in my face when I dragged him on the Rolling Thunder, at Six Flags and then kept trying to convince me that he really _did _like roller coasters, the guy who brings two lunches to work 'cuz he knows I'm probably gonna steal or spit in one, the guy who sawed through my cane in the middle of the night because I put his hand in pot of warm water, the guy who makes me feel like I'm only in this place because it's a nice vacation spot." I smiled, taking his hand again, and watching his face for a reaction. "So, how lame was that?"

"Not half as lame as the speech I made, professing my love for you after you got shot." House looked mildly interested in that, which is more than I can say for the Ruben. "If the meds are causing stomach problems, I can get you some antacids or something—and you're looking at me like I'm an idiot, so I'll shut up and let you tell me what's going on."

"You're a little late for lunch. If I had known you were bringing me edible food, I wouldn't have choked down the crap that they gave me." I kissed his cheek, and picked up the rest of his food.

"In that case why don't we save it for later?" He shrugged. I felt terrible. I could have been here an hour earlier if I hadn't stopped at the hospital, if I hadn't run into Cuddy. Of course, the food thing wasn't what was really bothering me. I felt bad because my best friend and lover had gone from being slightly off and fun, to _this _without me noticing.

"You're blaming yourself for my winding up like this," he said with a sigh, after a minute or two of silence. I don't know what I expected to see, visiting him for the first time after his being admitted but this wasn't it. Danny and I hadn't seen each other for decades and I'd missed him but I felt almost nothing when I saw him. But with Greg, it was like one of us had gone out of town for the weekend and we were just catching up. Aside from the man hunched over in the corner talking to himself, and the fact that House looked more tied and ragged than usual, nothing seemed to have changed. It was almost like he wasn't even in a mental hospital. I nodded, ashamed of how I felt, considering how sick he was, and how horrible that must have made him feel. _You selfish bastard, _I thought, _your best friend is going through Hell, and you're foisting your own emotional crap onto him._ "You can't even control how much Vicodin I take; how are you supposed to control my brain chemistry?"

"You saw it and I didn't," I reminded him, trying to be gentle. "I never considered that it might be anything besides the pills. I did those tests to indulge you, but I didn't take them seriously. And I called you—I was so horrible to you when you needed me. That's what I feel guilty about, Greg; not your condition. I know I didn't make you sick."

"And yet you feel guilty about it," he said, half mocking, half concerned. "Jimmy." House pouted. "It's like you said, we're gonna figure this out. I'm gonna be okay, sort of. And at least we figured out what was happening before I did anything too dangerous. Besides, I thought it was the pills too. Why do you think I was stalling so much?" _You didn't want to detox. _I wrapped my arms around him again, but this time he struggled a bit but, after a minute, he calmed down a little and let me hold him, while I whispered I love you, over and over.

An hour passed, maybe two, and I started to calm down. He was starting to do better and so, I decided once again to try and talk to him about something that was concerning me. I picked up his drawing and pulled it closer to us.

"Can you tell me about this," I asked, one arm still wrapped around his shoulders, the two of us sitting on chairs in the day room. He responded with a shrug, but I saw something in his eyes, a little bit of shame, and a lot of fear. "Are you talking to your doctor? Because, I might not be able to help you yet—but they know what they're doing and it sucks, but I need you to give this a try. Even if it's just for me."

"Shut up. You're more annoying than the hallucinations," he snapped, only it wasn't really him snapping at me. He was uncomfortable and didn't want to have this conversation. House was hoping that he could avoid talking about what was happening to him by shifting my attention to something else. His idea would have worked on anybody else, but I knew beter. I think he was trying to see whether or not I was capable of acting like everything was normal. "Please talk to me?"

"What do you want me to say," he asked, trying to yank the piece of paper out of my hand. I patted his back gently. "Seriously, I don't know how to do this." If it weren't so sad, it would have been funny. He actually needed me to tell him what to say.

"You can start by telling me what's going on, and why you—I mean, uh, how you…just anything. There really isn't any _right _way," I told him, but I was pretty sure Greg didn't believe me. "What's this," I asked, pointed to the dark shadowy figure. He tended to do better in emotional situations if I asked him specific questions so he could give me specific answers, rather than having to sort through forty odd years of traumas.

"I'll give you three guesses and the first two don't count. Oh and the bastard used to be married to my mother." I sighed, and touched the side of his face with my free hand. "Maybe that was a tiny bit too mean. I dunno. Been thinking that, since I'm here, might as well try dealing with my—personality quirks too."

"I think that's a really good idea," I told him, kissing his temple, because I didn't know what to do except be tender with him. "So that's you?" I pointed to the little boy. He nodded. Greg had hinted at the abuse on numerous occasions, but had never come right out and told me exactly what his father had done. "You're not seeing monsters are you?" He shook his head. _Thank god for small miracles_. "And the meds…they're working?"

"Eh," he said, twisting his hand back and forth. "I'm a little less confused, and it's getting easier to ignore—you know, jut don't feel much better. I thought something would change. Doctor says that's not unusual. First part is easy to treat, but the real issue—doesn't matter," he explained, tiredly. _Have you been sleeping, _I wondered, and apparently my worried face showed. "Sort of," he explained, as if reading my mind. "Maybe I lied in the sleep lab and I don't—and I can sleep with you watching."

"You don't do so well when I'm not around," I asked and started to rub tiny circles on his back and shoulders, as gently as I could. He shrugged again. "I shouldn't of listened when you said you could do this all by yourself, huh?" Again, he barely responded. "I love you, and I don't care how long you're in this place; I will _never _leave you. I will never forget you, alright? We're still friends, and I still love you."

"And I'm still gonna live happily ever after," he snarked. _Well, it's nice to see that somethings never change. _"I'm not afraid that you're gonna leave me, or rather I know that if you go away for a little while, you'll always come back. Our friendship—or whatever this is—made it through last summer, pretty sure we can make it through me having to spend time in the funny farm. Though it's gotta be tough, me losing it right now, so shortly after the prodigal brother returned." Once more he was trying to provoke a response out of me. I just wasn't sure what he thought I'd do. When I remained calm and understanding, he apologized again. "Don't know why I keep doing that."

"Because I don't treat you like everybody else does. I don't hate you, I don't yell at you just for acting like yourself, and I don't expect you to change, but they do. I love you just the way you are, and you don't think that's possible. You wanna make me act the way the rest of them do because then it's not you, it's us. But if I'm nice to you," I started to say, but didn't have to finish. We'd had this conversation a hundred times. And yet he never seemed to believe me.

"If—how long is this gonna last?" _I don't know, _I thought, as my mind kept picturing him standing in front of the door, as he turned around and stared at me desperately, longingly. I thought, _I should have gone with him_. I shouldn't have listened when he said he was okay to do this by himself. It was a miracle he hadn't run away. "Jimmy," he whispered, touching my face and then wrapping me in his arms. "You keep saying everything's gonna be okay, and—maybe you're right. Maybe." I smiled a little, patting him on the back.

"You are amazing. I'm—you're in this place and you need me. I come to visit and get all weak and needy and sad and then you, you're strong for me. You're like. You were the only one who treated me normally after Amber died. I pretended like I hated that, but honestly. If it weren't for you, I probably would have ended up in one of these places." House rolled his eyes but he went with me when I stood up, and started down the hall. Luckily I had been able to get him a private room, so I got him set up with the TV remote and promised I'd be right back. Then, I went to the nurse's station, and told them to make sure everyone stayed away from us for a while. I wasn't planning on sex or anything, but I knew he wouldn't want anybody to walk in on him crying, or whatever. They all agreed, and I walked back. "Okay, I'm all yours and…we have a couple of hours to chill before they have to come in and give your evening meds."

"Shh, I don't wanna miss this. It sounds important." I smiled, weakly and stood beside him watching the TV screen. "Here," he said, quietly, as he scooted over just enough to make room for me. I smiled, and sat beside him, wrapping my arm around his shoulders again. He lay beside me, the back of his head pressed against my shoulder as he stared at the fake doctors on TV, while I stared at him. I thought about the car ride up here, how he hadn't said a word and I had had just let him do that. I saw him again, on the stairs, looking back, his eyes begging me to come with, and me turning away.

The second the door had closed, I climbed into my car, leaned the seat back, curled up on my side and started sobbing. I felt like he'd died. I still had all of House's stuff in my hands. _Bring him back, _I'd begged. _Give him back! Bad enough you did this to him, but God damnit don't you make him stay in this shit hole. I'll bring him home. I'll take care of him; he's mine. I love him and he's mine! Now give him back! Have him turn around and race back to me and I'll never ever let anything hurt him again. _Nothing happened and I'd gone home alone, even though I wanted to rush inside and hold him and never ever let go.

I might be able to convince the doctors he'd do better at home once he was stronger, but at this point, he needed to be here. I felt my own chest growing tighter, tears burning behind my eyes. "Hey Jimmy?" House touched my face again, intrigued and concerned. "If you need to cry or something, you should do it. I'm not gonna freak out," he told me, bravely. I managed an extremely small, pathetic smile, and I hugged him back.

"I'm okay," I lied. He squinted at me and frowned, as if to say, _that's my line. _"I've been crying on and off since I dropped you off. You're right, though. I'm not okay, but I don't hafta cry in front of you. Unless it'll make you—unless it'll help you. Would it help? No, okay. Nevermind," I promised, kissing his temples again. "Your show's back on." Greg looked away, but not at the screen. "Maybe we can both cry together." He shrugged, head turned somewhat towards me but his eyes were focused on someone or something in the distance. "House?"

"Make it stop," he whispered, almost inaudible, turning onto his stomach so he could burry his face in my shirt. I felt his body shudder in my arms, but he kept trying to stop himself, he kept stopping himself. _I'm here, _I thought, but wasn't sure it would help. So, I kissed the top of his head, and rubbed his back and shoulders, and I let my own guards down, so we were both in the same place. "'They' aren't monsters yet, but it's only a matter of time," he whispered and I couldn't do anything except make a soft sobbing sound. _Take me, _I thought. _Do this to me, not him. _Something wet started to spread across my chest. "They always turn into monsters." That one hit me really hard, made me more worried about him than I had been.

"This happened to you before," I asked, rubbing his shoulders some more, and trying to lift his face just enough so he could look me in the eyes, so I could try and see what was going on in his head. "That one is important. Has this happen to you before?"

"Only in dreams, and once when I dropped acid," he muttered, face pressed even deeper into my shoulder. "Don't you think I would have told you if I were hallucinating all the time? I told you about _this_ even though I knew you'd send me here." Greg was quiet once again for a little while. "I'm such an idiot," he practically whimpered after what felt like an eternity. I made a soft sound like shh, not that it helped. "How could I ever think that _she _would do anything with me?"

"Hmm, maybe because she kissed you a couple of months ago and has been in love with you for twenty years," I taunted, running my hand through his hair, softly. He looked up for about two seconds. "Sorry, that was rude, and cruel, and completely uncalled for."

"Yeah," House said, with a small sigh. I felt horrible. I kissed his hair, and was about to apologize. He lifted his face again, a clever little smile on his face, and then he winked at me. "I loved it." We both laughed. "I said it before, but obviously you weren't listening. I don't want you to treat me differently, which is gonna be hard but—you're the only one who doesn't think I'm an obnoxious freak, and I like that, as pathetic as it might be." _That doesn't make you pathetic; it makes you human_.That's when he kissed me, not a long kiss, and he kept his mouth closed, but a kiss nonetheless. "And I don't want this to change too much either. I like being—whatever we are."

"I'm not sure how we're gonna—I'm not…I don't. I can't do that with you right now, not in here, but I will…once you're feeling better. Once my dead girlfriend isn't standing over your shoulder. Once you know what's real, and what isn't, okay?" House nodded, silently. "I love what we are. I love the feeling of you inside of me, of your lips on mine, of your breath on the nape of my neck. But I don't wanna add to your confusion, or your pain, I'm sorry if that feels like rejection. I just…" Luckily he cut me off before I made too big a fool of myself.

"It doesn't. I know what you're doing, or trying to do and I sort of like. I sort of want—it helps me figure out that you're the real you. Even the best figment of my imagination wouldn't try and protect me like you do." I smiled, and blushed, pressing my lips against his forehead. "If you were rejecting me you wouldn't have shown up when you thought I wasn't eating."

"You did that on purpose," I croaked, as the realization hit me all of the sudden. "You know, the next time you wanna see me; just say something and I'll be right there. Anytime, day or night. I don't care if it's 4:00 in the morning or 2:00 in the afternoon, or anytime in between. I will come. You don't have to trick me, or play mind games. Okay?" Once again, he barely said or did anything. The guy shrugged, rolled onto his side, pressed right up against me, and went back to watching TV.

"You made me miss my soap," he said, trying to sound mopey, but not quite pulling it off. "You're gonna hafta pay for that." I felt myself smiling, warmth filling up my chest.

"Howdo you wanna make me do that,"I asked, gazing into his clever blue eyes and watching as his thoughts grew more and more complex and intense.

"I'm sure we can think of something that fulfills my requirement, and doesn't make you or me or the dead people uncomfortable." He giggled. _Good one._

"At least you're comfortable enough to be able to make fun of yourself. Makes my life a whole lot easier. If I had to tiptoe around all the eggshells that represent your problem areas, I'd—well, um. Let's just pretend I said the first two sentences and forget about the stupid eggshell metaphor that I totally screwed up." He smiled and shrugged. "So what are you okay with?" Another shrug, followed by Greg rolling back onto his stomach, landing on top of me, as he inhaled deeply, face pressed right up against my shirt. I was starting to worry when he undid the top three buttons, and started kissing all over my chest, mainly because it was only a matter of time before I did something that would make this situation even more difficult to diffuse. Then, he stopped, slid back over to my side, and looked up at me smiling.

He said, "You are way too easy," and let out a tiny laugh. A minute went by. I sat in silence, still trying to not let him see just how worried and hurt and scared I was, while he remained oblivious and (almost) happy. "Still owe me though, but if you brought me a present, I might be more willing to forgive you for making me miss my show, especially if it's a really good one." House wiped his eyes with his shirtsleeve even though the tears were long since gone. I offered to get up and grab a warm, wet washcloth to clean up his face, which he agreed to, begrudgingly. Then, a nurse came in with his evening meds and told us that dinner was in fifteen minutes. I looked at my watch, mostly because I didn't feel like it was that late. 5:15. "Feel like I'm in kindergarten. Even have a bedtime."

"If they break the rules for you, they have to break them for everybody else, and at first it's just the bedtimes but then it's eating in your room, skipping group therapy or individual sessions, or," I started to say, but he interrupted me with another kiss, a very small, very quick kiss. "I know it sucks. How about, while I'm here tonight and for any other night I spend in with you, we can pretend like you're going to bed but you and I can stay up and whisper to each other, or you can read, or draw, or…whatever." Greg smiled, and all but giggled.

"I thought we'd just ruled _that_ out," he taunted, smiling huge. I shrugged. _I'm all alone; it's kinda hard not to get horny, especially when the guy I had been getting it from has to be taken away by the men with butterfly nets. _"How'd you get everyone to leave us alone? They're supposed to do checks four times an hour."

"Because I told them to leave us alone, and let me take care of you, or else you'd sign out AMA, which—in case you get any ideas—we're not going to do."

"I know." House took a long drink of water before continuing. "Been having wicked dry mouth ever," he explained. I didn't have to tell him that it was a side effect of one, if not more, of his new medications.

"How's your leg," I asked. I didn't wait for his answer before I started massaging his thigh, very lightly, high enough above the scar to keep from hurting him, but pretty close.

"It's been worse, but it was better when I had more control over what I took and when—" he started to say, but cut himself off. _And how much you took. _I didn't need to hear him say it out loud to know that they were giving him significantly fewer Vicodin here than he'd be taking on his own. "And I still want my present," he demanded, making a tiny little pouty face. I smiled. Who wouldn't smile when he tried to charm them? It was adorable, and it actually worked on me because I knew that he meant almost every single nice thing he ever said to me, and very few of the mean and sarcastic ones. I was (and still am, I hope) his go to guy, his problem solver, etc, etc.

"Okay," I gave in after a couple of minutes of him making the 'I'm such a poor, pathetic, unhappy, needy, sad, scared, crippled little boy' face. "I did get you a present. But it's in the car, I'm hoping you'd be able to keep it but I wasn't sure. We'll have to see. Hey, you gonna be okay if I get up for a minute?" Greg rolled his eyes and grunted. "I need you to tell me if you're not, okay? Anytime you're not, I'll—"

"Be right over, yeah I know. You already told me that like fifty times. Granted forty two of them were before you found out just how big of a psycho I am, but you've keep on saying it, which makes me think that there aren't gonna be nearly as many changes in my relationship with you as there are in my—whatever—with the rest of the world. Not to mention the not being able to work anymore thing." House wouldn't admit it, but he was going to hate giving up his job. He might complain about it nonstop, might do anything he could to avoid clinic duty, but not a day that went by, where he didn't rush up to my office with a funny story, or an exciting object that he'd removed from someone's…well, body. And when he was working on a real case, we'd go home at the end of the day and all he could talk about was the patient, their symptoms, treatment, his team's reactions/ mistakes, and his own brilliant ideas. Giving that up forever would actually be worse, I believed, than giving up his pain meds.

I stood up, waiting at his side for a moment, ran my hand through his hair quickly, and then walked back to my car. It wasn't much, and I was pretty sure he wouldn't like any of the things I'd brought him, but it was the best I could do in this situation. Greg was sitting up in bed, looking a little excited, even though I had explained that they wasn't really a present, but just some of his things from home. When I entered the room, however, he still looked mildly disappointed at the armload of photographs, a watch, and a couple of his toys and balls. I smiled weakly and sat back down beside him.

"You mind telling me why there's a clock in every room in your apartment, including the bathroom, and why you have a box with enough watches to wear one on each arm every day for a month and still not see the same watch twice?" He shrugged. "Do you really want me to try and figure it out on my own? You're really good at these sort of deductions while I suck at them." More shrugging. "So, anyway, I figured you might like to have a watch. This one's new. I dunno if you'll like it or now, but this glows in the dark. I thought it was cool. His arm shot out and at first I thought he was trying to hit me, but the guy was asking me to put it on him. "There are some pictures, just the stuff you had up around your apartment that I thought they wouldn't mind. Now, I had to take them out of the frames, so anything that looked rare or like a collectable I left alone. I didn't wanna risk losing anything you think is important." He smiled, like he was preparing to laugh, then stopped himself, and nodded. "Hey you're the one who complained to me about the record Hector ate."

"_That_ was an original Sun Record—nevermind no point in trying to explain something to you if you don't have any idea what I'm talking about to begin with." He took the rest of the photographs out of my hands, leafing through them. "I can keep these? Here?" I nodded, trying to brush back a bit of hair that was sticking up. The first photo was a larger copy of the one I keep in my wallet. He smiled and put it to one side. The next picture was an album cover that I didn't recognize and this was placed to the side of the other image. He organized the rest of the pictures into two piles, returning the alum cover and a couple of pictures that I suspected he had probably used as pornography, although they could technically be considered art. The rest were pictures contained a picture I had taken of Steve McQueen, the rat, who was climbing on the side of the cage as if trying to reach up and wave, a couple of me, or him and me, and a photograph of an 70-something-year-old woman who looked sort of like House's mom—his grandmother, I assumed—his mother at maybe 40, and Greg, on his 7th birthday, huddled around a cake. It was the only picture of him I'd seen where the guy looked truly happy. He smiled sometimes, and seemed content with his current situation, but there was always this sadness too, in and around his eyes. "Help me tape 'em up, or something?" I smiled and we put the pictures on the wall behind his bed. "So what, they don't trust me with picture frames?"

"I said it before but obviously you weren't paying attention. The rules are there to protect people who aren't as uniquely rational as you, and if they let _you _get away with having a picture frame, then other people are gonna ask for special treatment and pretty soon someone's gonna use their special privilege to hurt themselves or someone else. It's not personal. Like the shoelaces." I knew we were heading for a rationalism argument.

"Oh come on, nobody's gone for that old clichéd in ages and besides if someone wants to die bad enough, they'll find a way. Doesn't matter where they are or how careful everyone around them is. T-shirt works just as good as belt, or a rope. Hell, you can die from taking to much Aspirin. But _you _already know that. The rules aren't made to keep people like me safe; they're to protect the asses of the people who run these places. An inmate tunnels out of jail with a soup spoon…well, nobody could have seen _that_ coming but if he gets his hands on a gun and shoots a guard—" he muttered. Unfortunately, he only went on tirades like that when he was angry or frustrated or something. I sat beside him, again and gave him my hand to squeeze but he wasn't interested. "I just can't imagine the rest of my life like this. You know I'm not gonna be able to have sex anymore. That's a _wonderful _side effect of the new meds. Never understood why they didn't try and work out that particular kink. Stuff's been around for decades."

"Because people are terrified of psych patients. They want you too tired to get out of bed and incapable of getting an erection, otherwise there might be paranoid, angry, screaming, delusional nut jobs running around raping the good, normal, happy folk."

"There's only one problem with that," he started to say but we both already knew what he wanted to add. I gave him the 'I know' look, and he gave in. Once on the meds, the delusions and hallucinations go away. They also often experience painful, debilitating side effects. Greg looked straight ahead, and moved on to another point. "If you know all of this, then why tell me that things aren't gonna change? Why say everything is gonna be alright?" I sighed, unsure where else we should go, what we should do. "Don't try to cheer me up by lying to me," he demanded. I nodded some more and wrapped my arms around him once more. "And don't tell me not to worry about that _now, _because I don't think I can make it through _now _if even you won't—if even you're being…if you're…if you," he stammered, on the brink of tears it again. "Did you hear what I just said?"

"Let's give this a little bit longer and I'm sure I've offered you this before but I'll say it again, okay? If you get to a point where it feels like this isn't worth it anymore, you tell me. Tell me and I'll make the pain go away. Forever," I promised, pulling him closer and kissing his hair. "When we first met, I used to think I could make you happy, fix you. Took me a while to realize that while you are broken, you don't need to be fixed. I like you better this way, and I know how that sounds but you're an amazing person, who makes me laugh and never lets me get away with being boring or ordinary or stupid. Look, just don't do anything without me. If you can't do this anymore, I'll sign you out of this dump, take you home, make you comfy, and then," I whispered, but I had to stop myself and bite down on my lower lip to keep from sobbing hysterically.

"You'd do that for me even though it's obviously the last thing in the world you wanna do?" I nodded, no longer capable of actually talking without losing it, and making him think that I wouldn't keep my promise, if ever asked. "Don't worry, I'm not gonna do that to you," he promised snuggling in really close to me, while I thought about what he'd just said.

"So basically, you're only hanging on because you're afraid to hurt me?" I hated that idea even more than I hated his being here, even more than I hated the Universe for doing this to him, and even more than I hated myself for not being perfect, for not being able to give him exactly what he needed.

"Well, that's just a temporary situation. You're sort of in a tough place right now, but as soon as you get okay enough to be able to handle life without me, I'm gonna jump out a window or something," he teased, although it didn't sound that much like a joke.

"You don't have to do that; it's like I told you. When you need to go, regardless of my emotional state, I want you to tell me and I will take care of it. That way it'll be painless, and you won't hafta worry about messing it up, okay?" He still just shrugged, but I got the feeling that he was okay with accepting my help on this. "Now can we talk about something slightly less depressing," I taunted, still wondering how he managed to fall so far, so fast, without me seeing it. I had been sleeping with him at night, at least three times a week sometimes more. I'd been playing games with him, kissing him, cooking for him. We'd been watching TV, talking to each other, making love, playing video games and I thought—I just thought I would have seen something so huge coming. I sat his side, and held his hand, and promised that everything was going to be okay. We ate dinner together. "No wonder you're not eating," I mocked, gently, carefully as I picked at the crappy hospital meal while he finished the Ruben I'd brought him earlier. He laughed a little.

"How many times do I hafta tell you? I'm doing the best I can! I just don't eat that much. I eat whatever you make me but usually…when I go home at night usually just have a couple drinks, and _maybe_ some popcorn or potato chips, or something and then I fall asleep on the couch in front of the TV. Next morning, I might have some cereal before I go to work and then I eat some of whatever you brought for lunch. It's been like that my whole life. Do you have any idea how long it would take for me to stretch out my stomach so I can eat like a "normal" person?" He watched my face to see if he had done that correctly, and if he hadn't what he should do instead. "Oh—you were kidding, 'cuz that stuff tastes like crap. Actually, I can't even say that because it's an insult to crap." I smiled, again grateful to be able to see the guy acting like himself. "Can you stay here tonight or do you hafta be at work really early?" I smiled, shook my head, and gave him another pat on the arm. "Stop doing that!"

"Sorry. It's just so hard to see you like that, pajamas in the middle of the day, all tired, and doped to the gills, little bit of drool coming out of your mouth and—in case you haven't noticed—you've only made fun of me, really made fun of me not just our usual guy stuff like twice today, which is a third of what you'd do on a regular day. It makes me worry about you, makes me think—I dunno. Nevermind. I'm getting used to a new situation. Remember right after your leg how scared I was of touching you because I was afraid I might hurt you?" Greg nodded, rolling his eyes, probably picturing the first time we made love after his surgery, the same way I was. "This is like that. Give me some time, I'll get used to it, and things are gonna be pretty much normal, okay?" He shrugged. "Well if you don't give me time then I might not be able to help you out at all. I mean, not—actually I will be able to help you but I am, I mean I can…" I stammered, mostly for his benefit. "I won't be able to process this, deal with it and I won't be able to treat you normally, and you're gonna freak out, which can kick your disease into overdrive, which can cause them to keep you in here longer, which will make me more uncomfortable, which will make me worry more, which—you understand, right Buddy?"

He smiled and nodded, and curled up really close to me. _The old House would have made fun of me and said how could I not understand, _I thought_. _ It was getting pretty late. House had just taken his nighttime medications, and it was almost time for him to be told—officially—to go to bed. I was starting to think that his complaints about the schedule had more to do with his need to everything exactly as he wanted to, than with any actual circadian rhythm issues. Which is why I was smart enough to not bring it up. "Hey," I whispered as he started to drift off towards dreamland. "You want the lights on or off?"

"I dunno," he confessed, nervously, and tired. "As long as you leave the TV on, I'm okay. So, I guess whatever makes you more comfortable." I didn't tell him that I had no plans of sleeping that night. Greg lay in my arms as I switched the lights off, watched his terrified face in the pale glow from the TV, turned them back on, and the two of us lay there together, yawning, and occasionally mocking each other. He fell into a light, uneasy sleep sometime around 10:00, and I stayed up, thinking about my friend, our past our current situation, and tried to figure out what we were going to do next.


	2. Chapter 2

AN: the first bit is sort of a flashback, just in case you couldn't tell. Also, sorry about the sad, sort of cliffhanger ending, but I didn't want to try and do too much at once.

"I dunno, Greg. It's not that I don't wanna do it, I'm just not sure this is the best time for…well, _that,_" I explained, staring at House—who was practically naked in my bed, and staring up at the ceiling as if something fascinating were up there. "What does it feel like?" My cheeks and neck suddenly felt ten degrees warmer.

"Might as well ask me what it feels like to walk on the moon, for all the good a description would do you. This is just one of those things you've gotta experience for yourself, Jimmy." I'd nodded, nervously, as I climbed onto the mattress beside him. "And you need to relax, majorly. If you don't chill out, you're not only going to not have fun, but it's going to turn tonight into a major bummer." I started to apologize, but he didn't seem to care. "I brought my bong too, not—I'm just thinking that pot will calm you down a little, and since I already dropped, I probably shouldn't be working so hard to get you to join in. First time it's usually better to have a 'babysitter,' just in case."

"Oh," I said. _Thank God, _I thought. "So it's scary the first time?" House waved his hand back and forth. Then, he started flapping it around, in front of his eyes. He had smiled, watching the trails that I believed to be coming off his fingers.

"If you're not interested, you're not interested," Greg said, sitting up and turning to face me. 'More for me." I sighed, whishing he would at least try and explain it to me so I could make a somewhat informed decision. I'd only known him for about a year, but I already understood that he—unlike me—tended to jump into stuff without any sort of forethought believing that he would figure things out eventually, 'or die with a smile on my face,' as he'd once said. I tended to be more cautious, reserved, and—according to House—chicken.

"Can I do like half of one—you know, thing?" He laughed, of course, but ripped the stamp in two, handing a piece over. Nearly an hour passed. After a while, I was starting to think that maybe half an acid tab wasn't enough to do anything. I got up to go to the bathroom. That's when I saw it. I remember feeling startled, but I didn't realize that I had turned and peed all over the floor until the next afternoon. "House," I called, nervously, and he ran over, making some snide comment bout how my dick wasn't half as big as I currently perceived it to be, but when he saw my face (which must have seemed as terrified as I felt) he changed his tune. "I think the bath tub is on fire." On _his _face, I saw stifled laughter, but Greg was nice enough to wait until I came down to mock me. He only asked why I thought this. "It's all full of smoke, can't you see? It's like it's the smoke is water, sort of, but not really. The stuff's gotta be coming from somewhere. You know what they say, 'where there's smoke, there's fire.'"

"Well, that is a possibility, but before we dial 911, you might wanna remember that while you only ingested the world's smallest dose, you're still, technically, high on LSD," he explained, kindly—coming from him—as he patted my shoulder.

"So that's just in my head," I asked stupidly. He nodded, smiling a little, but continuing to hold back hysterical laughter. "Are you seeing it too? Too bad; this is _so_ cool. I could stand here and watch it all day."

"Just don't forget to look down before you zip up," House exclaimed. "Or you could just do the safe thing and get naked, like me." I did take my clothes off, but we didn't have sex that night. Even though we haddone it before, he said something about being to out of it to screw me. It took years to realize that he was trying to protect me. We spent a lot of the night in bed, holding hands and watching the lightshow on my ceiling.

Back then, I was under the impression that House + hallucinations would always = fun. When Greg first came to me about the new hallucinations, I was almost able to make myself believe that this might be a new game. Maybe he'd given himself another migraine and was taking street drugs again, or something. Then, I saw the look in his eyes. Danny used to get the look a lot—I was pretty sure he still got it, but didn't see him enough to know for sure. For days, I prayed for it to be the pills. A sober House wouldn't be half as much fun as I'd gotten used to, and he'd been in pain all the time, but we'd learn to live with it. I prayed for anything except Schizophrenia, because I wasn't sure I could deal with having to see him make that face every day, for the rest of his life.

I told him all of this on my second (and his fifth) day in his new hospital. "Sorry, Jimmy," Greg said, mostly because he had absolutely no idea what I wanted from him and was still searching for the right response.

"It's okay. Technically, I think I was apologizing to you," I confessed. He looked more like he was angry, surprised, or both because I was apologizing _again _for something that wasn't my fault and didn't require an apology. "I guess I just don't like these places much. Hurry up and get better so we can go home," I taunted, trying to be extremely careful so that he wouldn't be too—whatevered—by my comments.

"Frankly, I'd be worried about you if you didn't hate this place. It's not Disneyland; it's a nuthatch. Don't get me wrong, they try their best to make us crazy people feel comfortable, but even the," he cut himself off. "This isn't supposed to be a permanent home. It's designed to build us back up as close to functioning, healthy, normal people as possible, so we can go home. So we can get back to our lives."

"Yeah, but it's gotta suck for you, knowing that _that _is never going to happen. Your team can't even ask you for official consults, because if something went wrong—even something you had nothing to do with—the hospital would be liable, and…well, you know." He shrugged, but his eyes had that far away expression, and I knew he was deep in thought. So, I stayed at his side all morning, watching as he picked at his breakfast, took his meds, and then I waited during his session with the shrink, after which he was even more quiet than he had been before it. In the day room, Greg let me sit with him and use the colored pencils from his table. I suspected this was, mostly, because it meant he didn't have to share with the other patients. I doodled little hearts, and smiley faces and things, without really looking at them, while he worked on a drawing of his own. He insisted on covering the paper up, hiding it from me, until he was "finished." He wasn't done by bedtime, and made me swear I wouldn't look overnight. So, I didn't. The next day, I had to leave for a while around 10:00, to deal with some work stuff, freeing up my schedule so I could spend more time with House and not have to worry about getting calls all day.

Then, I called in every favor anyone had ever owed me—and a few that I had yet to earn— to get the hospital to allow me to bring Steve McQueen to the hospital and allow House to keep the rat in his room. Unfortunately, he was not happy to see us. "Why are you bringing him _here_? I'm all weird, and messed up, and doped to the gills, and drooling! I don't want him to see me like this."

"His brain is the size of a peanut. I highly doubt he's going to notice that you're different than usual. Although I am pretty sure he knows the difference between us. Unless, he pees all over you when you try and feed him too." Greg smirked.

"Well, he's used to me, but I'm still much, much, much, much bigger than him, and once in a while, he does get a little freaked out by me. But mostly, I think he likes me. Probably 'cuz I give him cheese and peanut butter crackers all the time. He seems to like me, seems to try and climb all over me, and jumps up onto my arm and walks all the way up my arm. I think he thinks it's some kind of a game, but I'm not—or maybe he just likes climbing stuff." A minute went by. "I tried to let him go free once. I put him in his little ball, and 'accidentally' left the latch open. He got out, but just scurried over to me, and sat by my hand, waiting to get picked up." I was about to tell him just how sweet I thought that was when he made a sad, little face. "He's a wild animal. He should want to escape."

"I think you're projecting. You don't want to be here, but you know you have to, and so you don't even think about running or stuffing your meds into a little slit in the mattress, or planning to overthrow the hospital. Now, Steve—on the other hand—is a rat. He lives to eat, sleep, crap, pee, and climb on stuff. Sometimes all at once." I made this joke, as I watched his face to make sure he wasn't offended or hurt. "I think he stayed because he remembers whet it was like to be alone, cold, hungry. Even living with you and sleeping in a cage is preferable to being homeless and scared."

"Now who's projecting," he mocked. This time House watched _me_ before continuing. "You can relax, Wilson. I'm not gonna run away. If they every put Vicodin in vending machines, then you _might_ be in trouble, but until that day, you're stuck taking care of me. And, I know, you don't see it that way. Neither do I. Not really." I wrapped my arm around his shoulder.

"Greg, I love you," I whispered. "I'm sorry; but I just…this situation sucks. I'm terrified of losing you, but it's always been like that. First I thought you'd just get hurt and die, from some weird, crazy thing you tried. Then, with the pills—I thought…you know, and now I'm afraid that I'm gonna lose you to this and I—but I can't put this kind of pressure on you…" Even Greg saw how bad I seemed to be doing. "I'm so sorry. I guess we're both freaking out a little, which is especially bad because I'm supposed to be the one taking care of you."

"Jimmy, the people at this hospital supposed to be the ones taking care of me. That's their job. You're my best friend. Okay, you're my only friend but if I had more than one friend you'd still be number one. Your job is to hold me, and talk to me, and tell me jokes, and pretend like this never happened—to the best of your ability. I'm gonna be fine, regardless of how freaked out you get. But I don't want _you _to get an ulcer because _I'm _sick. We're gonna be okay," he promised, and then showed me a big, fake smile. "I finished the picture. Well, finished isn't quite the right word, but this is about as good as it's gonna get. So, might as well let you have it now."

"I can—you're letting me keep it?" He had spent so much time working on this drawing, and had been so determined to keep me from seeing it; I thought that it had to be private, personal. I was amazed he was letting me see it, let alone giving it to me.

"Well yeah. I was making it for you, Jimmy. That's why I worked so hard. Um—one thing, before you see it. I still feel like—I didn't realize until it was almost finished, but I made myself a little kid again. You're in this one, but you're still you though. I—it's us…I dunno. Probably stupid, but you make me feel so good and maybe even a little…nevermind." I smiled, gently and kissed his cheek. I wanted to say something reassuring, but knew it wouldn't help. "So, do you want me to whip it out or what?" I chuckled, and pressed my lips against his face again.

"Come here," I sort of ordered, rubbing his back a little more. "I love you, Greg. I'd really, really like to see your drawing, especially if it makes you feel better having me around—or you know—whatever you want." He made that _I'll do whatever you want me to do _face, and I didn't know what to tell the poor guy. Finally, he took the piece of paper out and decided to let me look at it.

This picture showed the same little boy from before, only now he had a little smile on his face. I was holding the little guy in my lap, with my arms wrapped around him, and while there were still some shadowy figures (monsters) around the edge of the picture, there was a protective bubble of yellow and gold sparkling light all around us. He had even found some sort of glitter and mixed it in with the crayon and colored pencil shine. It was amazing. I smiled, gently. "Does it make you feel…different in any way, to draw stuff? I mean, uh, sometimes when people talk about something that's bothering them, it helps just getting the stuff out, and I thought that maybe this gives you the same sort of, uh, release—which is why I thought you've been doing it a lot lately." I'm not sure why I thought he might be bothered by what I'd said. House didn't like to let people see him show any sort of emotion. Before he got sick, he barely spoke to _me _about how he felt or what happened to him as a kid. Now that he was talking to the shrink, he flat out refused to say anything of any real substance to me.

Greg sighed, patting the rat as it sat on his left knee. Steve stood up part way, as if leaning into his touch. A few minutes went by. McQueen squeaked, eating bits of crushed crackers straight out of his hand, and I started to wonder if my question had been forgotten.

"I guess I like drawing more than talking. I don't really know how to describe the way having you round makes me feel. When you're around, I think I'm—I feel sort of "safe," but that's not even the half of it. And—I can't believe I'm saying this. I sound like a three-year-old—the bad things don't bother me as much when you're—when I'm with you." His eyes, which had been staring into mine, shifted down, ashamedly. "I lied. Sort of. You asked me if they turned into monsters and I knew what you meant. You were asking if I was 'seeing' _him _but I let myself believe that you were asking if I was hallucinating vampires or werewolves or something. Sometimes," he started to say, but stopped himself. "I've only been here for five days and you spent all of last night and most of today with me…at night—when you're not here—he… I think the part of him that's still in my mind—which is what I'm actually seeing—is afraid of you. Or maybe it's because I know you won't let anyone or anything hurt me, which means that the hallucination of him knows it too, which means that I can trick myself into feeling safe enough to not see it anymore." When I tried to say, I understood, he continued. "_See_, that took like twenty minutes and it's not—I…the picture shows all of it, everything I can't say, and all the stuff I just did, right?"

"Yeah, I mean, look at this guy," I said, pointing to a monster in his picture. "He—it—was flying or running towards you, but it hit the shield, making him—it—bounce back like Wylie Coyote. I'm not trying to trick you into talking to me, I was just…this is, wow. I had no idea I helped you so much. If you need it, I can take some time off work and stay here all the time all day every day until you're ready to come home. And don't say I can't do this. What I can't do is sit back and watch you decompensate. Besides, I'm not gonna be any good to my patients if I'm too worried about you to listen to or treat them." By then, he was actually starting to relax, even fighting back laughter

"Jimmy, I was just gonna say that I like your idea. Obviously part of my mind likes you, or trusts you, or whatever. That's why I never see him when we're together. Just like in the drawing. I'm probably being stupid," he murmured. "You took off so much time last year. If you do it again, Cuddy might fire you. We can't live without money. I have no job, no insurance, nothing."

"House, calm down. Cuddy said I should do whatever I have to, for you, for us. I think she wants to be able to have you around if your team needs advice…on patients. Obviously, she can't keep you on as a doctor, but anyone can give advice and everyone else can decide whether or not to listen, decide how much of your advice to take. She'd give me the next twenty years off, with pay, to make sure I play ball," I explained, pressing my lips to his temple once more. _I'm so proud of you, _I thought. Most people—if they'd gone through what House had—probably wouldn't even bother if their mind turned against them too, but Greg kept going. "Let's talk about something good okay?" He smiled, squeezing my shoulder, and looking into my eyes. "Remember that time we dropped acid together?"

"Can I have a half of one," he recalled, mocking the younger me. "I almost broke my neck putting up those little glow in the dark stars on the ceiling. Looked like a meteor shower in your dorm room."

"Hey, yeah! I forgot about that part. You always have such great ideas. It's almost impossible to spend time with you and not have fun, even when you're making me miserable." His smile got a tiny bit bigger. "I still love you." He didn't seem to believe me. "I know. This is probably like a million times harder for you, being smart is pretty much all you've got. Or so you think. That's—you're not any less brilliant now. You will always be the same guy who loves to steal my food, who put embarrassing little notes on my desk, in my files and books, and who used to send me those emails." He looked a tiny bit relieved to see that I could do what he wanted and needed. "I bet when you are finally okay to stay at home while I go to work, you're still gonna find ways to mess with me. In fact, I bet you've already thought of stuff." He stared past me again, looking somewhat uncomfortable. "And you don't believe me, do you?" Greg shrugged. "I know; this is a really, really tough disease to learn how to adjust to, but," I started to explain.

"Like you know anything!" I sighed, leaning back, softly stroking his hair, and I said, _tell me then. _"No! I can't! I just…you've been on the _outside _of this before. You're even doing exactly the same thing as before. You wanna make up for not being able to take care of your brother. That's why you're taking care of me. It's the only reason."

"I _love _you. I wouldn't be here if I didn't. I wouldn't have the strength to take care of you. This has nothing to do with Danny. I'd prove it, but I think—I mean—I don't think you're really up for sex stuff, unless it's just kissing and…" He shrugged some more, partially angry, partially too tired to care. I kissed him on the mouth gently, but also with passion and he kissed back for a little while. "See? I could never do that with my baby brother now could I?"

"Well, maybe you two just have a _special _relationship," he mocked. "Would explain why you blame yourself for doing what every single person in the history of the universe would have done, why you reacted so badly afterwards."

"Danny used to rely on me, like you. Of course I feel bad about what I did, _because _of what happened as a result. You're right, anyone else would have done what I did, or something else similar to it, and Danny would have done exactly the same thing he did. That has nothing to do with why I'm here. You are _not _my penance. Got that?" He made another half-assed shrugging gesture.

"I have this—what am I gonna tell my mom?" I sighed once more, rubbing his shoulders and giving him gentle pats her and there. "I mean, how's she gonna feel when she hears that I'm—she's my mom and I'm…I don't want her to know this," he whispered, pressing even closer up against me, burring his face in my shirt again. He wanted to have a relationship with his mother (or so he said) but had yet to do anything about it. If he couldn't trust her to try and help when he was sick, then—I thought—it would never happen.

"I think she could help you. Having people you can trust, is really helpful in these situations. Plus, then I don't hafta hire a nurse to stay at home with you, if you don't wanna be alone when I'm at work or whatever. Or I could just retire and stay home to take care of you full time."

"_Oh_, that's a good career move," he teased, and pressed his lips against my stomach, and blowing, softly. "Can we at least wait 'til I stop having hallucinations of her dead husband raping me? I don't want her to know what he did, ever." I nodded, and promised I wouldn't make him tell her, or do it myself. "Too bad I can't calculate when I'm gonna be seeing stuff, so you can actually have a life instead of sitting around and watching me drool all day."

"If it wasn't so depressing and disturbing, I'd probably think it was sexy," I said, partially because the idea of him drooling over me—even thought that's not what this was—did seem cute, but mostly to get him to smile or laugh or make fun of me, or something, anything, but he just stared. "Okay, that came out differently than I meant for it to, and now you think I'm a huge jerk."

"Welcome to my world," Greg said, quietly. I touched his hand, and he squeezed mine back. "Can you really take all that time off to be with me?" He was trying to sound uninterested but we both knew how important this was. House was silent for a minute, as I thought it over, but he spoke up again before I could say anything. "'cuz you said you think my mom might wanna help, and I dunno, maybe she, maybe just having someone around who makes me feel secure is all it takes to keep me calm enough to make me okay." I wasn't sure (as often happened with House) what exactly he was trying to do, but I had it limited to a few possibilities. He might have wanted to see how quickly I'd bail on or abandon him, or he may have wanted what he said, to see if his mom would help. He had wanted a relationship with her for years but couldn't have had one because of her husband. There were other possibilities, he also might have wanted me to say it wouldn't work, or for me to get her to come, only for it not to work out. This was a complicated situation. "You look like you're worried about something," he offered, trying to sound helpful.

"I'm not sure what you really want. So, for the most part. I'm trying to figure that out. I don't want to make everything worse." This received a hearty laugh. "Really want me to call and try to ask her to come?"

"I figure, if anybody can work it out, that's you. It's gonna be bad when you tell her, though. Real bad. I'm her," he started to say something, probably a nickname she'd had for him when he was little. "Just wish you could get my mom out here, without her having to find out I've lost my mind." I nodded again, pressing my lips against his forehead. "You're supposeda say, 'she's you're mother, she's gonna love you no matter what.'"

"And then you say, 'that's the biggest load of crap I ever heard,' and I say something like…I dunno. I'm just gonna call her, okay?" Greg shrugged again, rolling onto his side, possibly to give me some privacy, but more likely because he still couldn't stand for me to see him crying, or whatever he was doing. "If I go out in the hall, to talk to her, will you be okay?" No response. "I just—this is gonna be one Hell of a conversation, but I guess it's okay to talk in front of you." He nodded some more, but didn't seem to be paying much attention to anything besides the TV.

House's mom reacted almost exactly as I'd expected. I had no idea how to break the news to her, so I didn't say right off the bat what was happening. She knew I wasn't calling to say that Greg had been nominated for a Nobel Prize. When I finally did tell her he'd been diagnosed with Schizophrenia, she asked what that meant. I explained. It's different for every person, I said. I told her—although I had not originally planned to—what symptoms, exactly, he was experiencing and how it was going to be controlled, helped. Near the end of our conversation, he started to push at my shoulder, and even said something like, "Jimmy, tell your stupid girlfriend to shut up," more to get my attention than because he was having a problem. I patted his hand gently, covered the phone, and told him I would only be a few minutes longer. Then, Blythe said she wanted to come and see her son as soon as possible. And after that, she insisted on talking to him. I knew this could cause problems, but let it happen because. Greg said he could handle it.

"Hi, Mom," he said, leaning against me, and fidgeting a little. "No—I…I dunno…you don't hafta bring anything, I'm not….I know…yeah, okay…um, maybe chocolate chip, or something with peanut butter in it…okay….no, really…I'm okay, I guess…well, yeah, but still okay…it's not so bad…no, really…yeah…actually, Jimmy's been a big help with that, so it's not really not terrible at all…well, I didn't say _that_….I dunno, I'm not a big fan I mean, I don't like how I look in pictures…oh, he's not in them. Well, then, I guess so….Oma? Yeah, I'd like it a lot then. Thanks, Mom…Okay…me too…bye," he said and handed back the phone. She and I talked a little longer, and then I was able to go back to giving House my full attention. "Boy you're really going all out, my rat, my mom, what's next, a bundle of balloons? Ohh! Maybe you could get personalized ones. 'So sorry you've completely lost touch with reality and are now seeing dead people. Get well soon.'" He smiled a little, curling up around my side.

"Of course. I must be up to something. Chocolate chip cookies…that's one of the signs of the apocalypse, isn't it?" He let out a small smile. "You're in a mental hospital; you can never do your job again; you're scared—don't make that face at me, I'm trying to explain something important—and all I'm trying to do is make you feel beter. Do you want me to stop? Because, if you do, I can sit here and stare up at the TV set, and pretend like you don't exist."

"Don't do _that,_" he practically whimpered. "I'm having a hard enough time convincing myself that you're really, the real you…if you act too much like me, and not enough like yourself, I might never be able to tell."

"Maybe I should get a tattoo," I teased, gently. "Just nothing too big. How do eight inch letters, across my chest sound?" He shrugged, looking towards, but not actually at me. "Hey—hey. It's alright. I promise. We're gonna figure this thing out. We're gonna figure everything out." Instead of saying, 'I don't believe you,' as I was expecting, Greg just nodded, and gave me an insty, little smile. "What's that?"

"My mom's making me cookies, and…she's bringing these pictures, and stuff from when I was little" he said, a little proud, a little excited. "She wanted to make brownies, but I only really like those if they've got weed in them."

"Please tell me you didn't actually say that to your mother." He didn't bother to defend himself. He knew I had heard the conversation, and he also knew I only said that because I was trying to treat him like nothing was wrong, and was thusly being 'nice,' to him.

"Say something to me. Something that'll help me forget where I am, and what's going on," he practically begged. I wasn't sure there was anything in the world that would do that, and it took me a little while, but eventually I came up with a comforting lie, which is what he claimed to want.

"We're gonna figure this out, really, really soon. The meds are starting to work. Right?" House nodded, his gaze fixed on something across the room, and part of me wondered if he'd ever be comfortable talking to me again. "It's okay. You don't have to tell to me anything. You just talk to the doctor," I whispered, stroking his hair. "He knows what to do. And he, and. your mom and you, and me…we're gonna make everything okay." When he made his _I dunno face, _I wrapped my arms around him more tightly. "I know you don't really want to, which means you have two choices then. You can talk to him and be honest, but it'll take a while to get used to stuff, because he's not me and he doesn't know everything about you. You can talk to me and I will know stuff but, I'm not exactly impartial, so I'll—you know." Greg sighed and nodded. "We _will _figure this all out, and then everything is gonna be alright," I promised, but he just stayed quiet and let me hold him, watching TV, staying lost in his own little world until he fell asleep around midnight. I felt bad promising him things when I wasn't sure if they were possible or not. I'd sworn to him that I'd make everything okay, but when I was alone, I prayed for what I said to be true. He needed to get better. The meds and therapy _had_ to work, because he couldn't live with the hallucinations and monsters and I couldn't live without him.


	3. Chapter 3

AN: Sorry for the really long chapter but I had a bunch of things I wanted to do and I didn't find a good place to end it. Also, please don't hold my lack of knowledge medical facts or psychiatric hospital function against the story. I thought these things made it work best.

House fell asleep fast, but he didn't stay that way for very long. He tossed and turned, waking up, looking at me pathetically, and falling back asleep five times. At 6:00—maybe a little earlier—he sat up, pressed his head against my shoulder, and sighed, loudly.

"Can we just give up now," he groaned. "Or do I hafta "sleep" with you and then try to sleep after that?" I shrugged, kissed his temple, squeezed him gently, and stayed up talking to the poor guy for the rest of the night. He picked at his breakfast, watched TV in the day room, and he tried to start on a new drawing, only it wasn't turning out very well. He kept stopping, using a marker to black out the image, crumpling up papers, and throwing them to the side. I tried to open one of the sheets. "There's a reason that's on the floor in a ball," he explained.

"Why don't you tell me what you're trying to do? Maybe talking about it will help you to see the scene more clearly, or—uh…I dunno. Maybe I'm can't help you a draw picture. I'm pretty much talking out of my ass in case you couldn't tell."

"Can see it perfectly clear in my head, Wilson. Understanding or seeing it isn't the problem, but thanks for the offer," he added, squashing another drawing, and throwing it at my head. I pretended to need to duck, even though it missed me by a mile.

"Be nice," I insisted, playfully reaching out to give him a gentle shove. "I can make them put you in restraints." I was a little worried he might be concerned by this comment but, Greg just smiled.

"Is 'Little Jimmy looking' to have a little fun," he asked, flashing me that sly smile. "I'm not really into that sort of thing. If you're curious, should definitely talk to Cuddy." It wasn't brilliant but it was exactly the sort of thing he always said. I smiled, moving closer and pretending like I was going to hug him, then gave him a light smack on the head instead.

"Well, I'd have to do it with somebody else. If they tie you up, they're probably also gonna give you Haldol. So, even if you weren't completely knocked out, you still wouldn't be in any…er, position," I said, with a light chuckle, "to do much of anything, especially have sex." House laughed, which was nice because it was time for him to go talk to the shrink, and he tended to do better with her when he was in a good mood. His therapist was (is) great, and he got along with her better than he had with any of the other psychiatrists he'd tried to go to, but he still didn't like being in treatment much, and he didn't really respect her either.

They finished talking just before lunch, and when he left her office House looked like he was about to pass out. Dr. Steel was even walking beside, helping the poor guy stand up. She escorted him back to his room. I raced to their side, and sat beside him on the bed. House was out like a light again, only this time he stayed out. He was still asleep when his mother arrived at 3:00. She walked into the room, put her purse and a big box of cookies down, stood over her son, kissed his hair, and then looked over at me nervously, as if she needed to talk. "We should go out in the hall," I suggested, even though I hated the idea of leaving more than I hated the idea of waking him up when he needed his sleep this badly.

"How bad is all of this," she asked, standing very close to me. House's mom had her arms crossed over her chest, and her eyes were stormy. She was moments away from tears. "He's taking a nap. Greg didn't even nap when he was a baby."

"He was nervous—just a little—about you coming, and didn't sleep much last night. This is not normal for him. You won't—he isn't going to be like this on a regular basis. He's not changing, not very much." She let out a sigh of relief. "He's going to need to take medication for the rest of his life, to control—the symptoms. There is no cure for what he has, not yet. They are working on it." If she were a patient and I were giving her this news, I'd probably be touching her arm, but this was my boyfriend's mother. It seemed inappropriate.

"I know, I did some research on my computer after you called me," she said, went back into the room. When Blythe returned she was holding several sheets of paper. From where I was standing it looked like they were all from different websites. _So that's where he gets it, _I thought. "It says the main symptoms hallucinations and delusions. Is he seeing things? What is he seeing? And…is he—he's not…this is not a—it's not good. I understand that it's a difficult disease to have, but one article I read said that patients can be afflicted to varying degrees. How bad is he?" I sighed, hugging her, gently and trying to prepare what I was going to say next. I decided that it was alright. We'd met a few times. House's mom was very affectionate and more importantly she didn't pull away or flinch when I reached out with my arms. I still felt nervous talking to her, the way I used to feel meeting the parents of girlfriends.

"He has had hallucinations but the meds work fast and if he stays on them they shouldn't come back. He's doing really well too. In a few weeks, maybe a month and a half at most, he should be well enough to go home."

"What does he see," she wondered, patting me on the shoulder. I suddenly realized that she had seen her son in bed with another man and hadn't seemed the least big disturbed by it. She hadn't even said anything. I let out a sigh, and noticed that I was fidgeting, rubbing my mouth. I stopped myself. "You're nervous because I saw you holding him, aren't you?" I nodded, stupidly. "We went out or dinner one night, it was six, maybe seven years ago. John was picking on Greg and he started to get tense. He looked like he was going to cry. You put your fork down, and your left hand dropped under the table, I think you gave him your hand to squeeze, or maybe you took his hand. I know nothing more than that happened or he would have been even more uncomfortable. He just—relaxed. I knew just how good you were for him…you make my son feel better. If you're the person who can make him happy, why wouldn't I love you just as much as he does? Although, if I hadn't known ahead of time, I probably wouldn't be as comfortable with it. Understand?" I nodded. "You still haven't told me about the hallucinations."

This actually took me a while to think about. It was a very private matter. If Greg wanted her to know about Amber he'd tell her, and more importantly, if he wanted her to know about his dad, he'd tell her that too. Plus, if she knew what he was seeing she'd also want to know why and that would lead to a difficult conversation, one that I wasn't sure he was prepared to have. I sighed, once again realizing I'd been rubbing my hand back and forth across my lips again. Blythe stared at me for several moments, and then she reached out, wrapping hers arms around my body, hugging me again. "Oh James," she cried out. It wasn't that Greg hadn't noticed how upset I was, or how I had been running myself ragged. He knew, but there wasn't much he could do. Not for lack of trying. It felt nice to be comforted. "You told me Greg is going to be alright, and I trust you. But I'm worried about your wellbeing too. You look extremely tired, and stressed. My guess is that you haven't gotten a goodnight's sleep since he's been sick. He's been so much happier since you came along and if something happens to you, it'll devastate him."

I nodded. He had calmed down, and done better over the last 21 years, I just never realized how big a part I'd played. "Do you need to take a break? Maybe go home and sleep for a few hours yourself?" _I'm fine, _was the first though to pass trough my mind. _I could really use a nap,_ was the second.

"I wanna wait—make sure he knows where I'm going, when I'll be back. I would hate for him to wake up and not have me be there." Blythe agreed. "Thank you." I have a fairly decent relationship with my parents, and other friends, but I hadn't been asking for help for a while. It felt good to let go.

"Is there anything else I need to know? For when I'm alone with Greg." I almost said no. Then, I realized that she might not have had any idea what sort of things paitents were and weren't allowed to do in mental hospitals.

"He can't go outside—not right now. There are times of days when patients can go out, but not at night. Um—honestly, he knows the rules and, for the most part, he's not really even up to breaking them. If he starts to look or act like he is going to…do something, you need to call me, or get his doctor in here, or talk him out of it because if he gets in trouble in here, they might…it won't be good." We started towards his room again. That's when I saw Dr. Steel, standing next to House's bed. She had her hand on him, and while it didn't seem like an assault (sexual or otherwise) something in my mind just clicked. It seemed wrong. "One second. The doctor's in there. I need to talk to her," I said, and sped down the hall. "What are you doing," I demanded, probably loudly. Steel pulled away from the bed, turned around and looked at me.

"I was walking past his room, and I couldn't help noticing that Dr. House was tossing and turning and making these crying sounds. I came in, and—in medical school I worked on a study where we gave gentle scalp massages to, for lack of a better term, fussy infants. It lowers their heart rates, regulates breathing. In layman's terms, it soothes them. Works on older children and some adults as well. Why, did you think I was—oh God! I'm so sorry. I just realized how this must have looked from a distance." I nodded, still a tiny bit concerned, even though I believed her. I think it just upset me to think that I was only a few feet away and Greg could have gotten hurt without my ever knowing about it.

"No, I'm the one who should be sorry. I overreacted. I tend to—I know you, or I feel like I do because he talks about you all the time." Dr. Steel smiled and held out her hand. "I just worry about him because…" I shook it.

"I know why," she said, gently. Greg rolled over, let out a soft moan, opened his eyes, and smiled. I knew that smile. He was about to say something obnoxious, sarcastic and probably inappropriate. "As much as I would love to stay and chat, I have dinner reservations. See you tomorrow, Dr. House," she said, and was out of the room before he got the chance. Blythe, who had been standing in the doorway, watched the doctor leave, and then walked over and hugged her son.

"Hi, Mom," he said, with a small yawn. I sat down on the bed and gently placed my hand on his head, attempting to repeat the procedure Steel had been performing. "What are you doing?" I started to pull it away but he grabbed my arm, and showed me what to do. "Put your hand here, and apply gentle pressure, small circles. Tiny circles." The guy smiled. "I was having some pretty icky dreams last night," he whispered in my ear. "I told her about it. She said—she offered to try something. It worked, which sucks 'cuz I had some great insults thought up before she even started rubbing me, and I couldn't use 'em."

"Your mom asked if she could spend some time alone with you. Would that be alright?" He searched my face, as if I might be lying. "I don't wanna leave you. I'm okay to stay here, but she…you don't have to do it. I'm fine either way."

"Jimmy, you haven't left my side in four days and I'm not sleeping, which means you're not sleeping. You'll be dead by Friday. For fuck's sake, go! Take a nap, or cry, or whatever it is you need to do," he offered. "I'll be okay. Just um—promise you'll be back before I have to go to bed. And one other thing. I know it's stupid, and I talked to Dr. NARD about it and she said it's not gonna happen but I don't really know her so I don't know if I can trust her…so, can you promise something? You're not gonna let them do ECT on me are you?"

"Never, ever," I swore. "I will _die _before I let anybody do that to you." House nodded, still curled up, holding onto me as close and as tightly as possible, while I touched and massaged his hair and head.

"Whatever," he said, which was code for _thank you, Jimmy. _I helped him sit up. "You can go now. I feel fine. Was a little…you know, when I first woke up but I'm okay now."

"I'm not leaving until I _know _you're doing better. All you have to do is smile a little for me or tell a joke or something. No, no don't fake it with me. I can always tell," I whispered, blowing in his ear.

"Jimmy, please—don't. My mom is right there," he said, but his reason for wanting me to stop was not his mother's proximity. I pulled away slightly. "I can't do what you want. Just go." I sighed, hugging him.

"No, Greg. I won't leave. I can sit in the chair, or I can stand in the doorway, or I can stay here with you, but I am not going anyplace until I see you smile—or something. Even if it means waiting a day. Or twenty." He did another fake, little one. Greg's mom pulled a chair right up next to the bed.

Right off the bat, Blythe gave him a couple of cookies—one of which he actually let me eat—took out the photo albums, and started showing him pictures. The first couple pages were filled with pictures of Baby house and his mother, and grandmother, aunts, uncles, whoever. He was this skinny, sweet, smiley thing. Unfortunately, some time between his third and fifth birthday, the smiles disappeared, and were quickly replaced by another look. The kid had this sad, scared little boy face, and bruises, lots and lots of them. It seemed that in almost every picture, young Greg had a bruise, or a cast, on something, except for in a handful of pictures where he was wearing shorts, standing in or near big open fields, usually surrounded by sunflowers.

"I remember that," he said pointing to a picture of him and Blythe, dressed in Halloween costumes. "What the heck was I suppose to be though?" They both laughed, neither of them completely sure. "Mom wait," he insisted, pushing the book closed, and looking straight at her. "I need to scream and rant about what amounts to basically nothing at all. Can you leave me and Jimmy alone for a little bit?" She hugged him but didn't get up. "Leave," he practically begged. She hugged him again, and said it was alright for him to let it out in front of her. "It's just…I feel bad. I haven't done anything at all today, but I'm completely exhausted. Plus I'm starting to hate myself, well my brain any how," he muttered. "It was all I ever really had. Now, I can't even trust my own mind—see Mom, this is exactly why I didn't want you to hear this—anyway, I'm dealing with _that _and I'm dealing with being sick, and I'm not sleeping because I can't stop having nightmares, and I have to talk about—I have to talk about my problems with Dr. NARD and I have to talk to Wilson about the same things, and I know that, eventually, I'm gonna have to tell you about it too. So, I'm in a bad mood, and I'm tired and I don't even know why. This is so stupid. I am so stupid."

We both reached to hug him. I said it was okay, perfectly normal to feel this way and that he had every reason to be tired. His mom said he didn't have to tell her anything until he was ready. I said that was good advice. Greg just shrugged. He didn't seem to care how we felt; he'd just needed to get something of his chest.

"Sweetie, who is Dr. Nard? I thought the woman who was just in here was your doctor—it said Steel on her name tag. Who is she?" House smiled, a very little one, but a real smile nonetheless. I smiled too, because I knew, and it was funny, and sort of clever. It was so him, and I loved that he wasn't truly gone and never would be.

"N.A.R.D. stands for Not A Real Doctor. Traditionally speaking, most doctors don't have high opinions of psychiatrist. Many of them—Greg—think that choosing psychology after going through all the training, studying, and what not, and with all the other options, is a waste."

"I can talk for myself," House pouted. "Although, of all the crappy shrinks in the world, she is the least crappy. And, Mom, I'm sorry for my stupid outburst," he said, scratching his chin.

"It's fine, Greg. I know you said it wasn't necessary, but I brought you some dinner." He nodded, appreciatively. "But first I want to apologize for when you were a little boy. When I first started putting pictures together, I kept finding the ones where you were hurt and I didn't realize… at the time I don't think I realized just how terribly he treated you. I knew he was mean spirited, and I knew you never fell down the stairs. You didn't deserve to go through all that." Tears were streaming down both their cheeks, Greg's heart was racing and he was breathing raggedly. I scooted closer to him, trying to do the thing with his hair again.

"You okay," I asked, softly so he was the only one who'd hear me. He considered this for a good long while. Even though he nodded, I still said, "Maybe now isn't the best time for this conversation," to his mom. "He knows you're sorry, and I'm sure he forgives you, right, Pal?" He nodded, watching me in amazement. House thought it was spectacular how I could do this for people. "But I think we should—you want to do more than apologize, right? You want to talk to him about this, find out what happened, apologize, discuss everything with him, sort things out. He's just not at the point to be able to handle a conversation like that. He's getting better. The meds are working. We'll be going home soon, and I know that I would love for you to be a part of our lives, would that be alright with you too, House—" He cut me off.

"Yeah, Mom, I'd like that. Blythe stood up and gave him yet another hug. He seemed a tiny bit beter having gotten some stuff off his chest. "Go, Jimmy. Get some sleep," he ordered and I did. I pretty much passed out and didn't regain consciousness until 10:00 PM. I walked back to the room, feeling refreshed and relaxed. When I got there, I saw Greg asleep, looking calm, almost happy, and Blythe sitting at his side, watching him as if he were a newborn.

"Is he—was he alright," I whispered. She said that he had been mostly polite and quiet, but that they hadn't had that deep of a conversation. Blythe went to her hotel, after saying she'd call me in the morning to find out when she should come back. I sat with House, but was well rested and able to stay up all night even though he didn't really need me. He slept most of the night without any problems.

XX

The next morning, the guy woke up grumpy, insisted on taking a shower before doing anything else, had breakfast, and went off to therapy, but after a little more than ten minutes, he came back out, escorted by Dr. Steel. "What's wrong," I asked, trying to hug him, but he flinched and I let go. "Is he—what happened?" He was supposed to talk to her therapy for an hour a day, but sometimes he wasn't able to hold up the whole time, and Steel recognized this. So, she'd let him go early, which was good because if she had pushed him, he probably wouldn't have spoken to her at all.

"He had a bit of a rough night. Would you like to just hang out in your room, with Dr. Wilson all day," she asked, turning her full attention to House. He barely moved his head, but there was no doubting it. He had nodded. "I'll stop by around 1:00 or 2:00 to check up on you, just in case you're feeling up for a little talking. Sound okay?" Another mini nod. We gave Greg some colored pencils and his sketchpad. "I think you should try to get him to talk," she explained to me. "He's uncomfortable telling me about whatever this is because he doesn't know me that well, and—I think—because I'm a woman. I have some idea what the problem is, but that knowledge doesn't seem to be helping."

I sat with House for two hours, letting him draw in silence. I tried a couple of times to tell him I was there and willing to listen but he ignored me. Then, around 12:45, I couldn't take it anymore. I pushed him.

"Why did you need to take a shower as soon as you woke up," I asked, trying to duplicate the head rubbing motions again.

"Dr. NARD says I'm supposed to tell you that if I don't wanna talk about something and that you shouldn't try and make me. She said it's okay to not talk, if I'm not ready to or…whatever," he explained, putting the pencils down on his bedside table. One rolled sideways, dropping to the floor with a small clinking sound.

"That's good. You should tell me, because even though I'm pretty good at telling when to push and when I shouldn't, I'm not always right. And, everyone gets scared—that's what you meant, when you can't talk, it's because you're scared, right?—I do it. I get scared all the time."

"No, you get worried," he interjected. "You care about everybody, which makes you worry. When bad things happen, you worry. When bad things _might _happen, you worry. You worry about every little thing that could ever possibly go wrong. You worry about—oh my god! That's why you're always lecturing me about stuff. You're worried I'm gonna get beat up or killed by a patient so you try and make me be nice to them. You worry I'll OD so you drone on and on about the pills. You worry I'm gonna crash my bike or that my liver is gonna fail, or—I dunno what else."

"I also worry about you catching something from one of your patients, especially after what happened to Foreman. I worry—I'm terrified that you're gonna get stabbed by a hooker," I said, but he cut me off.

"Jimmy," he said, sounding more frustrated than ever. "In the two decades that we've known each other I've been with exactly three hookers. And one of them was after the whole Stacy debacle, when you told me I needed one as a distraction. Not sure it even counts." Now it was my turn to interrupt.

"But you—you said…you always say," I stammered, stupidly. I had never been this confused in my whole life and House is incredibly bright so he often talks circles around and therefore confuses me.

"I lied," he explained, fingers fidgeting, anxiously. _We're getting close to the real problem,_ I realized. "I lie a lot, especially when it comes to sex." I put my hand on his knee and he put his hand over my own. "Okay, so here's the thing I don't really _get_ sex." I sighed and rubbed his back a little. Once again, I told Greg he didn't have to tell about me this. "Just before I woke up this morning I was dreaming about us and I…you know. Sometimes, it…it," he mumbled, stopped himself, rubbed his chin, holding back tears. "I know that when the sex is over…it's supposed to feel really good. I do feel like that. Sometimes. I think I'm feel the way most people feel. Mostly it's only ever really happened with you, almost never when I'm by myself. God, I can't believe I just said that." I gave him a really tight hug. Greg let me, despite a quick attempt to push my arms away. "I lie about sex because I don't want to tell people that on the rare occasions when I don't go all numb—which is a copping mechanism left over from when I was a kid—I don't like _that_ part." I was even more confused, and extremely upset.

"Okay," I whispered. "Do you need me to let you go? Am I hurting you?" House shook his head, almost violently. "Can you tell me the rest?" He nodded but didn't say another word for more than ten minutes. "Is it easier if I ask questions and you answer, instead of trying to figure out how to tell me everything?" A quick nod. "What do you mean when you say you don't like it?"

"Okay, I'll tell you but don't interrupt me every five seconds. In fact, pretty sure I won't be able to handle any interruptions," he said, still talking in his regular voice, but he looked as physically and emotionally uncomfortable as I had ever seen him. "This is hard to explain, but—um…my mind automatically associated the physical sensations of what _he _did to me with the emotional pain of...well the same thing. My brain bonded the pain with the physical sensation of him…bringing me to—making me…you know. And I—I was so little that it didn't really happen, but it also sort of did, and I didn't know what was going on until I got older. So, I just assumed that finishing was a bad thing because it made me hurt—so I've never been able to really get over that…do you know what I'm getting at? I really don't wanna say the exact words." He rubbed his mouth, and eyes, and scratched his hair, and sniffled sadly.

"Yeah, I think I'm getting there," I told him, rubbing his head some more. "Am I doing this correctly?" He nodded. "So basically, you just said that for you—some of the time, but not always—orgasms are painful, right?" Another microscopic nod. "Your brain can't tell the difference between you on your own, or him hurting you, or you with someone who loves you." He didn't seem like he wanted to nod. I got this very strong feeling that he didn't want me to know about this problem, and all of a sudden I figured out why. House didn't want me to know whether or not he had ever experienced a painful orgasm while we were making love. He knew I wouldn't be able to stop myself form asking. "Does it hurt when you're with me?"

Greg made a face, like he was begging me to stop with his eyes. "Do I make you hurt? Yes, or no, House. It's' a simple question." I couldn't stop. I wanted to stop because I could see how much I was hurting him but I couldn't stop.

"One with no good answer to! If I say no, you'll forever wonder if it was a lie, and you won't be able to touch me ever again, and if I say yes it'll break your heart and you'll never be able to touch me again," he explained, sighing heavily. I gave his hand a little squeeze. "Wilson," he sobbed.

"No, House. This one is important. I need to know. I need to know how your body works. Just like you couldn't want me to smack your leg, right over the scar, I have to know about this." More sighs. "I need to know so I don't hurt you.

"But that's just it. _You _don't hurt me! You have nothing to do with the pain. Borrowing from your example, if you put your hand on my leg, like this," he said, and laid his palm on my thigh, soft and gentle. "There's a chance I won't feel much of anything. You tend to have warm hands, and heat can sometimes be soothing, so there's also chance it'll make me feel better. And there's always a chance that the nerves are gonna react badly to just being touched. _You _would not be causing the pain. You would not be hurting me. You would never hurt me," he said, and probably would have repeated it a hundred different ways, had I not placed my hand over his mouth. He looked so upset and frustrated by my action that it almost made me cry but I had to get a word in edgewise.

"If the answer was, 'no Jimmy; it doesn't hurt when we make love' or however you'd phrase it, you would have told me so by now. Which means that I have—oh my God," I gasped. He took advantage of my momentary weakness and pushed my hand away with every ounce of strength he had.

"You don't get it, Wilson. And you're being an enormous ass by the way! It's not that simple. My fake father screwed me up…in every sense imaginable. Pretty much the worst thing a parent can do to a kid. I've been dealing with it my whole life, but it's—I've never been able to fix it. My body doesn't do what I want it to do. It is extremely rare for me to have a normal experience regarding _anything_ sexual, especially a good—ending, and I'm a man so it's a pretty regular…bodily function. And even if I don't do anything for a few days it happens while I'm asleep. And don't get me started on the dreams, 'cause _those_ dreams are hardly ever good, at all. So, don't…it's _not_ you, not your fault. Got that idiot, or do I hafta say it again?" I sighed but nodded.

Greg gave me a shove, half furious, half playful. "So yes, sometimes when we're together, it feels okay and it's good, or good for me. But there are other times when…we're, you know…and I'm liking it, but I'm also praying for it to never ever end because I know that once you hit that spot, once you touch me the right way—and it's only a matter of time because you are very good—I know I'm gonna get to _that _part. And I hate that part. Then, I think about _him _which makes everything worse. I hate that part, because being with you is go great and _he _stole my ability to ever fully enjoy sex and I wanna be able to enjoy every second of it with you, and I can't! I hate that part because it takes something that oughta be beautiful and amazing or whatever, because I should be thinking about how much you love me, and how much I love you but all I can think about—is my father!Afterwards, you usually fall asleep, and…and I know you're gonna feel bad but don't feel bad. Is your tiny pea-sized brain capable of understanding that one little command or not?

"You don't do this to me. _He _did it. _He _is still doing this to me. When you're asleep, I lay there and think about you, and how good you are, how nice you are—to me, and everyone—and how you love me and take care of me, and how I always feel safe and almost happy with you. Do that, until I calm down a little. Works pretty well, actually. You love me; it was never been this good before you. If it makes you feel any better, the same thing happened with Stacy, I just couldn't self-soothe after 'cause she wanted to cuddle." He made his best attempt at making puppy dog eyes at me, in the hopes that I would stop.

I did stop. I lay with him for almost an hour. I—on his request—called Blythe and told her that her son was fine but wasn't feeling fantastic, and asked if she would please not come in today. It was one of the most difficult calls I ever had to make, but it was what he wanted; it was what he needed. A little later, though, I came upon a realization. Greg saw it in my eyes, and tried to stop me. He even attempted to cover my mouth.

"You said you have to sit up for a while, after you—how long is it between when I hurt you and when the pain stops?" He shook his head roughly, starting to cry again. I felt myself starting to drag him through the whole thing again. I hadn't come to terms with the news I had just heard, I couldn't handle this. I was screwing up. I knew it, but I couldn't stop myself. He didn't want to tell me, and I probably would have made him talk, had Steel not interrupted us. She knocked on the doorframe, even though the door itself was open.

"I had a couple pudding cups in my fridge and today's the expiration date," she explained. "You want one?" He nodded, desperately. "Dr. Wilson, may I speak to you in the hall, please?" I got up, slowly. Greg pushed me away. She tried to speak to him privately but I could still hear them. "Is he—pushing you?"

"A little, but he can't help it. I told him about the sex stuff, the stuff I sort of talked about this morning but couldn't. Then, he asked if he'd ever "hurt" me. I tried to explain, but he wouldn't let me explain. And now he's really freaked out and worried and sad and I can't reassure him. I wanna help Jimmy. I want him to feel better! He has to know that it's not his fault," the poor guy whimpered.

"Okay," she explained, rubbing his head, perfectly. "I'll help explain. I think I can do a good job of it, but my first duty is to you. You need to try and relax. I'm going to have a nurse come in to give you a Valium okay?" Greg looked from me to her and back again, as if asking permission.

"It's okay," we both said. He looked us over several more times. "If you don't calm down we'll have to give you something stronger, something you're not going to like. House's head lolled back, tiredly. He wasn't able to say no but he was trying.

"I think we should respect his choices," I said, but not because I actually agreed with them. I did want to respect his decisions but right now I knew he needed the pills. I just wanted to make up for having hurt him, and was wiling to do so any way I could.

"Can you self-sooth without it," the doctor asked, watching his face cautiously. He sighed. "Is that a yes sigh or a no sigh, Dr. House?" He looked at me for a very long time and shook his head once. "Take this too," she said, reaching into her lab coat and pulling out a tiny teddy bear. "You can throw it at me if you need our attention. Just don't hit me in the head too hard," she said as he eyed the stuffed animal suspiciously. We left the room but stood where I could watch over my guy.

"I can explain," I said, like a five-year-old who had just been caught behaving badly. "I know I did the wrong thing in there but it won't happen again." I thought that was going to be the end of it. Or that she'd comfort _me_.

"Do you know why what you did was so wrong, why he was so upset by what you did?" She even sounded like a parent, or school teacher, in that moment. I actually sort of snarled.

"Because I didn't listen to him," I responded snidely. I was feeling more and more like a misbehaved five-year-old by the second. She shook her head. "Why don't you just tell me what I did so I can go back and sit with him? All the crap in his system...he'll probably sleep for the next 12 hours; he doesn't sleep well when I'm not there."

"Dr. House thinks all of his accomplishments, everything he does that is right or correct or…he believes the results of what he's done to be temporary, that eventually he will do something to erase the good. He believes his mistakes to be permanent as well. So, when he makes a mistake it's devastating emotionally. He told me he couldn't tell you what he's just told you because he thought you might panic, blame yourself, and _never _be able to hold him, or hug him, or make love to him again. I didn't promise him you'd understand. I don't make promises to my patients unless I know I can keep them—it comes from a decade and a half of working with abused children." I sighed. _Is this gonna take long?_

"If you break promises to them, it solidifies the belief that all adults are liars who will only hurt and disappoint them, but I digress. I did promise that you would listen, and I said I hoped that even if you didn't understand, even if you were extremely upset, you'd allow him a chance to explain everything. Unfortunately, the way you reacted made him think he's screwed so badly that things will never be the same between you again." I felt horrified. It hurt my heart to even think about not giving House pills when he asked for them. This was like having a railroad spike pounded through my hand. She was right. I only hoped he was wrong, that my mistake _was _fixable. "Prove him wrong," she ordered. "Show him he hasn't failed, hasn't destroyed everything."

"How," I asked. I tried to stop myself from running my hand over my lips but it didn't budge. I grabbed my right wrist with my left hand and ripped it away, with all my might. "I have to fix this. Tell me I can fix this."

"Dr. House was violently abused and in many ways he's still very much like a small child. He's extremely smart, which is a great strength but it's also a weakness at times like these. He thinks that the only strength and power he has is knowledge. When a problem comes a long, he studies it, figures out how something works, how to fix it, and anything else he can learn then he solves the problem. That's what makes him such a great doctor. It's also why he's lousy with interpersonal relationships. People aren't that simple." _Doesn't help that he likes not getting along with people, loves annoying them. _"It's unfortunate that schizophrenia happens to be one of his areas interests. He's read so much about it. He thinks he knows all there is to know about the disease. Unfortunately, none of that previous knowledge will help his treatment."

"Because thinks he's not a regular patient. He's always going to assume he knows more than you do," I realized quickly. "Because in some ways…he does." Steel nodded. I rubbed my mouth again. "He won't let us help him, will he?"

"It could be worse. He could hate my guys and refuse to talk to me, or worse lie to me about everything,' she said, smiling slightly. I faked a smile, and looked back at House. I was still more than a little annoyed with her. "I believe we are making progress, and yes it is slow in going but it is going. He is getting somewhere. We are."

"He calls you Dr. NARD. You know that right?" She nodded yet again. "And you know what that means? It's not a testicle reference." I don't know why I got so angry all of the sudden, but I did. "You realize he's making fun of you, right?"

"NARD stands for Not A Real Doctor, which is what he calls me because I chose psychology as a specialty. It could be worse. He hates dermatologists more than shrinks, and I'm the lesser of the evils when it comes to therapists. He talks to me. He trusts me with his secrets, is open and willing to work on his problems with me, willing to talk." Steel reached out her hand, placing it on my arm the way I usually did when breaking bad news to my own patients. I never expected to be comforted by that but I was. A tiny bit.

"Yeah, you're—sort of—right, I guess. He did tell me you're pretty good at being able to tell when he's lying," I said, suddenly feeling a lot more comfortable talking to her. I think I'd realized how big a jerk I'd been. "Is he really making progress?"

"Yes, quite a bit in fact. We've even been discussing the possibility of him going out for the day some time in the near future. He'll need supervision, of course, and will have to come back around dinnertime, but a day pass—well, you understand the concept right?" I nodded and even smiled a little. I thought it sounded like fun, almost. "He's doing about as well as can be expected. Which is a lot for House, even if it doesn't seem that way. And Dr. Wilson, if you ever need to talk, my door is almost always open." House, half asleep, accidentally dropped the bear on the floor. We went back in the room to check on him, unaware of the fact that it was an accident. "See you tomorrow," she told me. Then, when he tried to return the stuffed animal, Steel added, "It's okay. You can keep it. Give the thing a little squeeze when you're feeling down," she ordered, sweetly. "You'd be amazed how helpful some of those tiny comforts can be. Chocolate, a hug; they make only a minor difference but every little bit helps."

He nodded, exhausted, and didn't throw the bear away when I put it back in his hand. House just lat there as Dr. Steel walked away. "Thanks," he called just before she disappeared around the corner.

"You're welcome," she came back to say. And then, she was gone, and I sat there, snuggling about as close as I could get with Greg, and massaging his head and hair some more. He seemed to relax, a little. Sort of.

"I'm sorry," I said, and he pressed his face against my shoulder. "You tried to tell me something important and I took it personally, freaked out, and wouldn't let you talk—which is what you really needed. I only made things worse." He sighed, tiredly. "I'm still making it personal, aren't I? Okay, um—when you're ready, I'd love to listen and try to help you out with this problem. And then—someday when you're feeling better—maybe we can try to find ways for you and I to make love and make it not be—is there any way I can work on making it hurt less often?"

"I dunno," he confessed, rubbing his chin more. This seemed to upset him even more than the actual problem. "But if you're willing to try, I am too, especially if you can hug and talk to me when it's over, might be easier for me to get used to cuming, which will maybe make it feel really good more often or at least make it not hurt for so long. That way I can calm down and get used to having you around when I feel calm, maybe even make it—you know. And hopefully—I think I want that anyway—eventually, it will always feel good with you. I like it when you make me feel good."

"Thank you for trusting me with the truth," I whispered, touching his hair some more. "I really hope that I've started—sorry. I know that this isn't about me. Okay, I don't but I'm getting there. Are you feeling any better, Greg?" He nodded, microscopicly. "Is there anything else I can do to make you feel better," I asked, kissing his head again. House shrugged, tiredly. "You want your pudding?" Another shrug but this one was less convincing. He didn't know how to ask for it but he definitely wanted the thing. "Here." I pulled the cover back, and stuck the plastic spoon inside. "Want me too feed you too," I teased, gently. "Are you totally exhausted?" Another tiny nod. "Okay, open," I said, bringing the spoon to his lips. "It's okay. You're too tired to move. And I won't tell anyone." He ate.

Maybe it was the tiny amount of caffeine in the chocolate, maybe he felt like we'd managed to accomplish something or maybe it was just the Valium wearing off, but he perked up a little after the snack, and spent the rest of the afternoon playing cards with me. He even asked me to help him think of something to do on our day out.

Later, around dinner time, we were goofing around, but he seemed uptight, as if something else were bothering him. I tried everything I could think of to cheer him up, and none of it worked. Finally, I gave up on trying to get him to talk and I decided to stick to cheering him up physically, and gave him a little tickle. He laughed. "Are you okay with that?" He nodded. "You sure?"

"Usually I don't like being tickled. Makes me feel like somebody else is in control over my body, but with you, my pleasure nerves all go crazy. Feels really, really good. Just about everything feels good with you. I want everything—and I get that this is totally lame so don't make fun of me or I get a free one on you, a _big _free one—I want everything to feel and, I guess, be good with you."

"Me too," I whispered, hugging him close and trying to rock back and forth a little bit with him. "It's gonna be okay, I promise. Alright?" That was a mistake. I could tell because his eyes went got stormy.

"No it's not _all right! _ Nothing is ever 'all right' but this is bigger than that. I have schizophrenia, you idiot! Stop trying to cover that up with hugs and kisses and tickles. Everything I ever had, everything I ever wanted is _gone_. My life as I knew it is over! I get that you wanna try and help me, and want to show me how to be happy and not be in agonizing pain all the time. Maybe I'll get there one day. But I'm _in_ a mental hospital, on anti-psychotics, and you're acting like I broke my leg and had to be put in traction!" I stared at him feeling scared, upset, guilty, and pissed off. "Say it. Out loud. I've progressed to the anger stage, but you're still in denial."

"House, I've been here all day, every day. I watch you drooling, sleeping for hours in the afternoon—you're shrink just yelled at me for not being sensitive enough to your emotional needs. Trust me, Greg; I know what's happening, and I know I can't fix it with hugs and pudding cups. All I can do is try to support and cheer you up. What's so wrong with—" Even though he was drugged to the eyeballs, he still won the staring contest. "Okay, you're right. Sort of." I smoothed his hair a little, and sighed. "Wait 'til I'm done. Then, you can take your shot. You were always kind of crazy, but it was the good kind of crazy, the fun kind anyway, the kind that doesn't get you locked up in places like this," I sniffled.

He nodded, hugging me a little. "Yeah, you have schizophrenia and it _sucks _and everything is going to change for you but not between us. Not between you and me; _never _with me, okay?" Greg didn't move and I knew it was because he wasn't sure if he should believe me. "We figured out how to deal with my divorces, we figured out how to deal with your leg, and with Stacy, and Amber, and all kinds of other crap, and we _will_ figure out how to deal with you being a raving lunatic too. Got that? And by the way if you ever tell me that your life is over again, I'm gonna kill you!" Greg laughed, and cuddled up close to me. "I know it's stupid and childish but I just thought of something for your big day out."

"Everything you say is stupid," he told me, tiredly. I laughed, and gave him a little shove. "Every word out of your idiot mouth is the most ridiculous, stupid, obnoxious thing I have ever heard. Childish too, could do a whole other rant about how childish you are but, just go before I say something I don't wanna say or whatever."

"If we drive far enough, we'll find a carnival or state fair, or something. We could go on rides, eat junk food that's been deep fried and probably also got dropped on the floor, play the games. It might be a little fun, in a purely sarcastic, laughing at it sort of way," I suggested.

House shrugged, closed his eyes, and said, "Well, it's not the worst idea you've ever had." It was late, so he went to sleep, and I stayed up a little bit longer, watching him, but managed to get a decent night's sleep. We both slept well, actually, first time since he was diagnosed.


End file.
